Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (15 page)

The girl walked as fast as a racehorse. Wiggins had been following her since he’d seen her come out the servants’ entrance of the house down the road from Humphreys House. Mrs. Jeffries had been very clear at their meeting this morning that they were to do their best to learn everything they could from the Humphreys House servants. But he’d already spent half the morning waiting about for a chance to speak to one of them and none of the servants had so much as stuck a nose out. He was determined to speak to someone today so this girl would have to do. Besides, servants talked to each other so maybe she’d know something useful.

She reached the corner and turned to her left. Cor blimey, for such a tiny thing, she could sure move fast. He caught up with her as she reached Horn Lane and quickened his pace until he was alongside her. She didn’t look at him but kept her gaze straight ahead.

“Excuse me, miss.” He doffed his cap politely. “If I may be so bold as to ask you a question.”

“I don’t talk to strangers.” She glared at him suspiciously for a brief moment and then turned her attention back to the road. Her face was narrow, her nose straight, her eyes blue and complexion pale. She had dark hair tucked up under her brown wool bonnet and she wore a thin brown coat that gaped open at the front. A wicker shopping basket was tucked over her arm.

He tried again. “Please, miss, I’m quite lost and if I can’t find the right address and deliver this letter, my guv’s goin’ to sack me.” He tapped the pocket of his jacket. He actually had a white envelope with him. Betsy had told him she always carried one because people were more likely to believe you weren’t lying if you had something to show them.

Her footsteps slowed and she cast him a quick, uncertain glance.

“I mean you no harm, miss, and it’s broad daylight,” he entreated. “All I’m asking for is a few directions.” Cor blimey, this was getting difficult. You’d think he was blooming Jack the Ripper instead of a decent-looking bloke wearing his best shirt and shoes. He looked respectable—he’d made sure of that before he left the house this morning.

She stopped. “Right then, where you tryin’ to get to?”

“Thank you, miss. I can’t afford to lose my position.”

She looked him up and down, her expression frank and assessing. “From the looks of your clothes, you’re not doing that badly. Those shoes must have cost you plenty. I saw a pair just like them in the window at a shop on the High Street and they’re not cheap.”

“They weren’t cheap, but I didn’t pay for ’em,” Wiggins said quickly. He prided himself on his ability to think fast. “My guv gives me ’is castoffs.”

She laughed harshly. “No wonder you don’t want to lose your job. It’d be a cold day in Hades before my mistress gave me anything. Right then, what’s the address you’re lookin’ for?”

“That’s just it, the house doesn’t have a number, only a name. But it’s on Linton Road.”

She rolled her eyes. “For goodness’ sake, you’ve just come from Linton Road.”

“Cor blimey, that makes me look a real idiot, doesn’t it.” He gave her what he hoped was an embarrassed smile. People often spoke more freely when they thought you weren’t very smart. Wiggins had gotten quite good at pretending he was thick as two short planks.

“Yes,” she said shortly. “And it’s half a mile back there so I hope your guv isn’t expecting you home anytime soon. Now there’s only one house on Linton Road that has a name and not a number and that’s Humphreys House down at the very end.”

“That’s it,” he cried. “Oh, miss, you’ve saved my life.”

“More like your job,” she muttered as she started off again.

He hurried after her.

“I thought you said you were in a hurry.” She regarded him warily. “So why aren’t you goin’ back the other way?” She pointed back the way they’d just come. “That house you’re askin’ about has just had a murder. The master was shot right between the eyes.”

“I know, miss,” he replied. “That’s why I’m bein’ sent around with a note. It’s a letter of condolence to the household. Besides, I never said I was in a ’urry. I just said I’d lose my position if I couldn’t deliver the letter. My guv’s not even going to be home till later today. But I’m not followin’ you, honest. And I’m certainly not a murderer. I was just hopin’ you’d let me show my appreciation for your assistance by lettin’ me buy you a cup of tea and perhaps a pastry. There’s a respectable café just up past the church on the High Street.”

She stared at him for a moment and then broke into a smile. “I know the place. It’s not a cheap workers’ café. It’s nice.”

“That’s why I invited you,” he said. “You’ve been very decent to me and I’d like to repay you. I’ve plenty of time.”

“Actually, so do I.” She giggled. “My mistress is in town bullyin’ her dressmaker into gettin’ her mourning clothes altered so they fit properly. She’s goin’ to the funeral of the man who owned the house you’re lookin’ to find. She won’t be home till this evening. The housekeeper is gone to visit her sister—that’s why I’m doing the shopping. We’ve run out of sugar and cocoa. Mrs. Humphreys will have a fit if there isn’t cocoa for her when she gets home. Alright, then, I’ll let you buy me a cup of tea. My name is Margaret Rimmer, but everyone calls me Maggie.”

“I’m David Parker.” He bobbed his head respectfully, took her arm, and led her in the direction of the café.

It didn’t take long to reach the High Street. Her eyes widened in apprehension as he opened the café door and escorted her inside.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You just take a seat at that table by the window and I’ll get the tea. Would you like a raspberry jam tart?”

“That would be lovely,” she replied softly.

Wiggins went to the counter, ordered, and waited for the counterman to make up the tray. He paid and carried it to the table.

She was staring out the window but turned and gave him a smile as he put the tea and the tart on the table in front of her. He put the tray on an empty table and sat down opposite her. “It’s very nice of you to come out and have tea with me,” he said.

“It’s a treat for me.” She smiled shyly. “But I think you’ve guessed that already.”

“Did you come straight up from the country to your position?” he asked kindly.

“I’m from a small village in Essex. I heard about the job from another girl in the village who was getting married. She worked for Mrs. Humphreys and recommended me for the position. Can’t say that I like it much here in London, but there’s no work in the village.”

Wiggins nodded. “Is your Mrs. Humphreys nice to you?”

“She’s all right.” She sighed, picked up her cup, and blew gently on the surface. “But it’s not like home. But I’ve not much choice, I need my wages.”

“Most of us don’t have a choice, do we? Otherwise we’d not be fetchin’ and carryin’ for someone else.”

“But your guv sounds nice.” She grinned. “Mrs. Humphreys isn’t mean or anything like that. The place is warm enough and there’s plenty of food. It’s just that we work so hard. It’s a big house and there’s only me and another girl to do all the cleaning. There’s a cook, of course, but she doesn’t do anything but plan the meals and make the food. I’m the first one up so I can lay the fires in the kitchen for the cook. Mrs. Humphreys doesn’t show her face until half past eight. Mind you, I don’t think she’s had such a good life, either.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Minnie—that’s the other girl that works there—told me that Mrs. Humphreys’ late husband was some sort of inventor, but he never made any money. Sometimes I think Mrs. Humphreys is a little bitter.”

“What kind of an inventor was he?” Wiggins was genuinely curious. He’d had some interesting ideas of his own for things that might be useful.

“I don’t know,” Maggie replied. “I mean, I’ve seen his contraptions lots of times, I go up to his old workroom once a week to dust, but I’ve not a clue what any of it might be. They’re mechanical things made out of wheels and cogs and funny-colored metals. I know that he invented some sort of device that was supposed to keep the birds out of Mrs. Humphreys’ garden. Minnie told me they tried to use it last summer, but it made such a horrid noise the neighbors complained.”

“That’s too bad. A bird scarer is right useful if you want to grow decent fruits and vegetables.”

“I don’t think many of his inventions worked properly because just last week I overheard Mrs. Humphreys telling Mrs. Prescott she was going to get rid of her late husband’s ‘silly gadgets,’ as she called them, and turn his workroom into another bedroom. Mrs. Prescott was horrified by the idea. They had a big argument about it.” She giggled, popped a bite of jam tart into her mouth, and then went right on talking. “Minnie and I couldn’t believe our ears—they were shouting at each other like a couple of fishwives.”

“Who is Mrs. Prescott?” Wiggins asked. He needed to keep up the pretense that he’d never heard of any of these people.

“Mrs. Prescott was the late Mr. Humphreys’ cousin. She lives at Humphreys House. She’s a widow, too.”

“How long have you worked for Mrs. Humphreys?” He took a sip of his tea.

“Since last summer,” Maggie answered. “I was thinkin’ of movin’ on, tryin’ to find work closer to home, but only yesterday I overheard the mistress tellin’ the cook that we might all be moving house soon.”

“Would that make a difference to you?” Wiggins asked. He knew that when anyone connected with a murder case mentioned moving, it was best to pay attention. “I mean, don’t you want to be closer to your village?”

“But that’s just it.” She smiled broadly. “Mrs. Humphreys was tellin’ Mrs. Cary that now she’s to get her husband’s share of his uncle’s estate, she was going to buy a house overlooking the sea at Southend. That’s not far from my village. I’d be able to go home every week when I had my afternoon off.”

“Southend’s right nice,” he murmured.

“She was ever so excited about it. She went on and on, telling Mrs. Cary that she’d always loved the ocean and that she had friends there.”

“Why didn’t she move there when her mister died?” Wiggins asked. He’d no idea if this was a useful question, but as it had slipped out of his mouth, he couldn’t take it back.

Maggie’s brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t think she could. She’s got a small income of her own. I know that because I overheard her tellin’ Mrs. Cary that’s why she wasn’t stuck livin’ at Humphreys House like Miss Ross and Mrs. Prescott. But I don’t think she had enough to do what she really wanted, which is to buy a big house over-lookin’ the sea.” She broke off and laughed. “It’s funny, isn’t it. All your life you think the rich are different, that they’re better or smarter, but once you work for ’em, you see they’re just like the rest of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Mrs. Humphreys was just as petty as old Lucy, who used to run the little shop in our village. She was a mean-spirited person, always thinking the worst of people and makin’ fun of ’em behind their backs. Mrs. Humphreys is just like that. Mr. Francis Humphreys was right decent to her, he helped out by payin’ for the repairs to the windows on the side of her house, furnishin’ her with coal every time he got a delivery for himself and sendin’ his gardener down to keep the hedges trimmed and turn over the flower beds every spring. But she never appreciated it.”

“I thought you said she wasn’t mean?” He gazed at her in confusion.

“She weren’t mean to me or Minnie or Mrs. Cary, but she didn’t like her husband’s relations much, I can tell you that. She told Mrs. Cary that as soon as they got the old bastard buried, she’d be putting her house up for sale and hiring an estate agent to find her a place in Southend. Good riddance to crazy rubbish, that’s what she said about him.”

 

Michael Collier lived in a gray stone four-story house on Moreton Terrace in Pimlico.

The inspector and Constable Gates waited in the drawing room while the housekeeper went to announce their arrival.

“I wonder if Michael Collier owns this house or if he’s just renting it?” Lionel commented as he gazed around the room. “I’ve seen that wallpaper in dozens of townhouses and those paintings aren’t in very good condition. He’s renting the place.”

“I don’t see how you can possibly ascertain such a thing.” Witherspoon struggled to keep the irritation out of his tone. “The wallpaper is a nice cream and blue print and the paintings seem like decent enough landscapes. Perhaps your taste isn’t the same as Mr. Collier’s.”

Witherspoon was at his wits’ end. Constable Gates simply had no idea how to behave properly during an investigation. He’d gotten rid of the fellow for a while when he’d sent him to interview the Browns, but his respite had been short lived as Mr. Brown had apparently shown the constable the door and had mentioned he’d be in touch with Gates’ superiors. It had been like this all day. At every turn Constable Gates was offering an opinion, making a comment, or being so obnoxious to witnesses they clamped their mouths shut and said as little as possible. He desperately missed Constable Barnes.

Both men turned as the door opened and Michael Collier stepped into the room. “You wished to speak to me?”

Lionel stepped forward. “We most certainly do.”

Witherspoon raised his hand for silence. “Mr. Collier, I’m sorry to disturb you at what must be a very distressful time, but we do have a few more questions.”

Collier nodded, took a chair, and gestured for them to sit down on the couch opposite him. “Of course there are questions. Poor Uncle Francis was murdered. Ask me whatever you like.”

“Do you know of anyone who wished to harm your uncle?” Witherspoon sat down on the end of the couch as far away from Gates as he could get.

“There was a feud between Mr. Kirkland and Uncle Francis, but that had gone on for years.”

“We know about that.” Witherspoon glanced at Gates to make sure he was taking notes. “Was there anyone else who had reason to dislike your uncle?”

Collier smiled briefly. “The Board of Governors of the Great Western Railway Company weren’t fond of him. He would send them nasty telegrams when the 3:09 to Bristol was late. Apparently, that happened quite often.”